Sheep Dog and the Wolf

by Douglass, Carl;

CHAPTER FOUR

  Early January

  With six seconds left in the first half of the annual rivalry between the Minnesota Vikings and the Green Bay Packers, the score was tied 14 to 14. Both NFL teams were unbeaten; and the Las Vegas odds makers had them at even money for the game; but the betting was 6 to 4 that the winner would be in the Super Bowl. Minnesota failed twice in the previous minute to be able to run in for a touchdown or to make a field goal because of a holding penalty and was set to kick the second time. It was fourth down. As the center hiked the ball, and the placer set it; Donovan Parks, the eleven year veteran kicker stepped twice; and the Packers called a time out, its third and final for the quarter. Mall of America Field at HHH was packed to one seat shy of full capacity—64,110 seats filled. The fans and the scores of officials, coaches, and players waited with cacophonous anxiety for play to commence. Minnesota ran back and lined up quickly. Green Bay took its time. The referee blew the starting whistle, and the play clock began to count down—10-9-8. Almost no one noticed as two men walked out onto the 50 yard line.

  They raised their arms and screamed the Takbir, “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar.’”

  Simultaneously each man depressed a metal switch on the front of a thick vest, and MOA stadium exploded into a fireball caught on film, then the television reception went dead.

  President Tom Storebridge turned to Secretary of State Jeffery Southem and asked, almost afraid to hear the answer, “Owen, what just happened? Tell me it wasn’t what I think.”

  “I’ll find out,” Owen Paxton-Reems, chief of staff, said, and dialed a number on his Blackberry.

  All eyes in the Oval Office were on the chief of staff. Shock and dismay spread over the rapt faces as they saw Paxton-Reems’ face turn a deathly white and his face contort in disbelief and pain.

  “Preliminary, but looks like a terrorist. Minneapolis will get back to us as soon as they have anything real to tell us,” he said tersely.

  President Storebridge knew that his worst nightmare was about to come true. He was going to face his first real presidential test. The bombing in Disney World was a shocker, but both the government and the press had downplayed it as the work of a disgruntled nut or of a fanatic of one stripe or another. There was no absolute proof that that one had been caused by an Islamic extremist. This one could not be explained away even briefly or slightly without him being labeled an appeaser, or worse, a wimp. He was already composing his speech for prime time, all channel, national television and dreaded the very thought of doing it.

  The families’ lives had been remarkably orderly. Wills, trusts, disposition of personal property, property deeds, persons to contact in the event of disaster or death, durable powers of attorney, and the transfer of guardianship from one sibling to another were up-to-date and readily available. With a few visits to his own and his son and daughter’s attorneys and with certificates of death in hand, submission of some paperwork, legal forms for life insurance agents, and a few remaining odds and ends of his nine family members’ lives, Hunter’s work was complete. He gritted his teeth when he determined that he was the sole remaining beneficiary of all that his son and daughter and their respective spouses had to bequeath, a sum that approached five million dollars. He would have given all that he had in the world to be able to go back to seven minutes to noon on that awful day and have it all turn out to be nothing but a passing dark fantasy. It was sobering to realize that he was the last remaining member of his family and his genealogical line. He now had no real personal ties to anyone; his and his family’s history would end with him.

  He arranged to have the houses and their contents sold at auction, had his lawyer and bank take care of the money, and took a leisurely car trip from Colorado to Virginia. He could not yet bear to sleep in his and Rosie’s bed—too many memories, too cold without her, too much anger at the Muslim world generated by those familiar things. He could not watch television, listen to the radio, or enjoy his favorite iPod music. He avoided friends and acquaintances.

  He found a hotel in Washington D.C. and took tours of the district, the D.C. area, including the 288 foot tall brilliantly white six spired LDS temple that seemed to grow up from the ground as he approached it headed south on the Capitol Beltway. He wandered the capitol grounds, the mall, and the memorials of the center of the city. He loved seeing the tiny red light shining atop the Washington monument. He spent hours sitting in front of the Viet Nam War memorial, fingering familiar names engraved on the shining ribbon of black stone. The experience kindled a few fond memories and many that seared his emotions. He left the mall in a deep depression.

  Early in the evening on the 6th, Hunter called the Prentisses and got directions from Oliver’s wife, Natalie.

  She said, “Hunter, I’ll wait until you get here to really talk. You don’t have to feel pressed to talk about the disaster. We’ll understand. Come early.”

  “I’ll be there a little after six-thirty if that’s okay, and the traffic permits.”

  “See you then, Hunter. It’ll be nice to get together again.”

  “Good, see you then, Nat. Good-bye.”

  “Bye, Hunter.”

  The traffic going out to the semi-rural Virginia countryside was only moderate; the directions were excellent and detailed; and Hunter was able to arrive at the Prentisses at six-twenty-five. A thin African-American woman dressed in an old-fashioned maid’s uniform answered the door at Hunter’s second knock. She greeted him with a smile, took his coat, and escorted him in. The entry hall was three stories tall and lined with variegated slabs of marble. The effect was of incredible richness but, to Hunter’s unaccustomed eye, more than a trifle beyond gaudy. The entry hall chandelier hung a story above the marble tiled floor. It was made of two thousand very small tear drop crystals and illuminated by hundreds of tiny brilliant lights artfully situated among crystals giving the effect of light coming from the crystals themselves. The floor reflected the brilliant light which illuminated a splendid mosaic tile showing Hercules straining to hold up the world. The obsequious maid directed him into a spacious room located to the right of the main entry hall and silently backed away out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  Oliver and Natalie Prentiss arose from their seats on a brocade divan and moved swiftly across the large octagonal room to embrace him.

  “Hunter, oh, Hunter, we’re so glad to see you and so sad about your loss. It is as impossible to convey the level of our sympathies as it must be for you to try and comprehend it,” Natalie said softly into his shoulder.

  Natalie was a tall, handsome, aristocratic woman of thirty-five. She was a slender blond with perfect delicate facial features and translucent skin. She had a distinct aroma of rich perfume. From fantasy shopping sprees with Rosie when they had gone on business trips to Paris, he thought he recognized Baccarat Perfume Los Larmes Sacrées de Thebes—priced at something like $1700 for a quarter ounce bottle. He and Rosie had laughingly decided that they could not afford even the empty bottle. Natalie’s hair was perfectly coifed in a long page-boy. She wore a simple black Vera Wang silk dress with a deep décolletage. The thin material of her dress caressed her lithe body and accentuated her impressive physical attributes. The hem came to a point just above her knees and set off her long legs in a calculatedly tantalizing way. She wore small diamond earrings; and on a slender platinum chain, she had a single pear-shaped Leo Schachter diamond pendant which Hunter estimated at six carats. He made an effort not to stare at the diamond, particularly since it rested comfortably between her partially exposed breasts which had probably required nearly equally expensive plastic surgery to achieve such perfection. She was a good fifteen years younger than her husband.

  Oliver Prentiss held his old friend in a firm embrace with his left arm and his wife with his right.

  “Hunter, we’ll only talk about what you’ve been through if you want to. We’re good listeners, if you want to unload.”

  “Thanks, you two. I’m still pretty raw. Maybe it
would be better if we stayed away from the subject until I’m in a little better control.”

  “I assume you heard the news, Hunter. Terrible. The second outrage in a month,” Oliver said.

  “I’ve been completely self-absorbed the past month, I’m ashamed to admit, Oliver. What now?”

  “Let’s turn on Fox News. It’ll be on. There’s nothing on the tube but that right now.”

  He reached back for the remote lying on the large custom made Philippine mahogany desktop, pressed the “on” button, and a 55 inch screen slid silently from its niche in the ceiling. Oliver put in the numbers for the conservative national news channel and shortly the HD pictures began to illuminate the screen with terrible reality.

  Hunter gritted his teeth in poorly suppressed anger. His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned to a mere straight line below his nose.

  Frank Dewitts, one of the daytime anchors narrated: “That’s all we know for sure to this point. Let me repeat the verifiable facts that we have been able to obtain from reliable sources. A massive bomb—or more likely two bombs—was set off in the middle of the Minnesota Mall of America Field by what appears to be a pair of suicide bombers dressed in Arabic clothing. The bombs had both high explosive and powerful incendiary components which were powerful enough to bring down the superstructure of MOA stadium almost completely. There have been only a relatively few survivors from among the nearly seventy thousand people in the stadium and in nearby buildings, and almost all of them are critically injured. The injured number in the hundreds, and it is obvious that the medical teams responsible for their care would take exception at my characterization of them as ‘few’.

  “Spokespersons on the scene expect the death toll to rise with time. As we speak, the fires are still burning in the stadium and in several adjacent buildings. All available emergency response team from a five state area around MOA field and from two Canadian provinces are on hand. The Red Cross has sent out an emergency request for money and blood. The regional National Guard reserves have been called out and have set up two dozen emergency medical triage centers. Needless to say, the region’s hospitals and clinics are swamped, and every physician and nurse in the area has been mobilized in accordance with the FEMA and Homeland Security plans. This is the first major test for the relatively new plans; and thus far, they seem to be functioning at great speed and efficiency. Critical burn centers in the five state area are overwhelmed, and many victims have been life flighted to distant states.

  “The president is slated to address the nation in the next ten minutes or so. He is expected to announce sweeping security measures. As of right now, all air flights have been ordered to touch down at the airport nearest them.

  “I warn you that the footage that you are about to see is appalling, and viewer discretion is advised. This cannot have happened in the United States, but it did. Here is the grim reality of this unconscionable attack.”

  Vivid still photos, cell phone footage, and digital video motion pictures showed fire, destruction, and carnage beyond anything any American had ever seen in his or her country. It was sobering, frightening, and profoundly disturbing.

  “I’m especially sorry that you should be exposed to such pictures and such awful news, Hunter,” Natalie said, placing her manicured hands with the piano player’s fingers, on his forearm. “It is too much after what you’ve been through.”

  Hunter did not reply. He looked at Natalie by way of acknowledgement; but she was right, it was indeed too much for him for the moment. He stared numbly at the horrors, unable to look away from the television.

  Through the rest of the day, Hunter and the Prentisses returned to the news for brief updates, but otherwise made a studied attempt to engage in light conversation. At ten, Hunter begged off from another platter of expensive gold wrapped chocolates and said that he needed to get some rest.

  “Of course, Hunter, let me show you to your room.”

  The silent African-American maid appeared—as if she had stepped out of the wallpaper—and picked up Hunter’s overnight bag. Hunter, Oliver, Natalie, and the maid climbed the spiral marble and inlaid precious wood staircase to the second floor guest room. The maid set down the bag, turned down the sheet and blanket, and unobtrusively left the room.

  “Get some rest, my friend. We’ll talk tomorrow,” Oliver said.

  He and Natalie nodded goodnight and left him to get his rest. Hunter stripped, had a quick shower to rinse off the tension sweat, climbed into bed, and was asleep in less than five minutes.

  He came down to breakfast at ten the next morning, having avoided watching the news on the television in his room.

  “The president spoke last night. You didn’t miss much. He just repeated pretty much what we already knew. He did say that he has mobilized the National Guard. This is a big hit, I’m afraid. There were likely multiple bombs scattered throughout the stadium in strategic locations in addition to the two suicide bombers.”

  “And the crowning failure of the libs’ pushing through the death of the Patriot Act,” Hunter said with an undercurrent of suppressed anger.

  “How do you feel this morning?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Up to some serious talk?”

  “The proposition you suggested on the day of the funeral?”

  “Yes. Then, I have some friends I want to bring into the conversation; some of whom you may know; and some you should know.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  White House West Wing Cabinet Room, 1000

  PRESENT: POTUS, ALL MEMBERS OF THE CABINET

  While Hunter, Oliver, and Natalie were spending their morning breakfasting and watching television news, the cabinet room at the White House where news got made was the scene of tension in anticipation of the subject most of them dreaded to broach. As usual, the president asked for each of the cabinet secretaries to voice their opinions beginning with The secretary of State.

  “Mr. Secretary of State,” The president directed, beginning the discussion, “there is but one item on today’s agenda. What do we do with the indisputable intelligence we have from the CIA that the responsibility for both the Disney World and the Minneapolis attacks began in Saudi Arabia, moved to Syria for supplies and transport, and to Iran for execution? Israel is pressing hard for a definitive response by us.”

  “Mr. President, I have given the matter my focused attention for the past month with little else getting done. The knee-jerk reaction is to let anger determine our course of action as did George W. Bush. President Obama took the high road and worked tirelessly to rebuild the bridges between us, our European friends—and now we can genuinely call them our friends and vice versa—and, in fact, with our, uh…counterparts in the Middle-East. While it is incontrovertible that the perpetrators were Saudis, Syrians, and Persians, that does not necessarily mean that their governments initiated or ordered the actions or even supported them. I strongly…most strongly…urge that you adopt a soft spoken diplomatic approach. No public disclosures of evidence; no threats or bellicosity. There is no need to pander to the radical right who hate you anyway. They will never vote for you, no matter what.”

  “What about Israel? How dangerous a game of brinkmanship do you think they will play before taking decisive action on their own?”

  “Israel is our product, Mr. President. We sustain them. We keep them. They do not do anything without our approval that is of a significant nature in the Middle-East. They know which side of the bread has cheese on it. We should continue to remind them of the golden leash that they wear, and we hold. Let me deal with them.”

  “There are plenty of students of the Middle-East, including the NSA, CIA, Homeland Security, members of the Congress and the Senate, and even some outspoken members of the administration at State, who beg to differ with you.”

  “The dissenters do not represent the government of the United States, sir. As the head of State, I am telling you right now that there are going to be a passel of new faces in the State Department
come tomorrow. I am quite sure that you will be pleased with the tenor of communication coming from there. As I said regarding Israel, I say about the foreign service of the United States: let me handle it.”

  “These are times that call for a firm hand, Jeffery. Make no mistake about that. I know what you think about Israel and your tilt towards Palestine in the ongoing…may I say, eternal, negotiations about the establishment of a Palestinian state; but I, for one, am not so sure that the Israelis have the same opinion about themselves that you have about them. At the very least, they bear watching. Let’s hear from Defense. Michael?”

  “I don’t think we are about to recommend war or any facsimile of it anytime soon; but, to state the obvious, we have had acts of war committed against us. We can hardly ignore the acts or their implications. We have put the defense forces on Orange Status.”

  Jeffery Southem, secretary of State, almost leaped out of his chair.

  “You what!!?? Without a word to me?! I can hardly imagine a diplomatic signal more provocative than that short of actually firing a cruise missile!”

  “Easy Jeffery. I okayed the order,” The president said, “We cannot come across as complete wimps. Maybe the meek will inherit the earth; but I, for one, would like it to be something more than the remains of a post nuclear holocaust world.”

  The secretary of State said, “’Terrorists want a lot of people watching, not a lot of people dead’, is a realistic aphorism made in the 1980s by Brian Jenkins of the RAND corporation, work triggered by the hostage killings at the 1972 Munich Olympics and continued for decades. With the exception of 9/11, most of the Muslim Jihad demonstrations have been for show and to sow disruption of governments, usually their own or their neighbors.”

  “That is an aphorism which thousands of bombing victims would doubtless dispute, Mr. Secretary,” Michael Chisholm, The secretary of Defense said pointedly. “Mr. President, the Joint Chiefs and I would like to do a whole lot more; but we have held off until after this cabinet meeting. At the very very least we strongly recommend that you and The secretary of State meet with the foreign ministers of Saudi Arabia and Syria and the Swiss who are handling matters for the Iranians and come to an understanding that our patience can only be strained so much. The American people will be up in arms if we do nothing. I have to tell you that I have been hearing serious officers suggest that they will resign if we roll over and play dead after another attack.”